Size 12

Hi Internetters, welcome back to my blog! Some girls are obsessed about their sizes. You might think it's shallow. I know I did. I used to judge people who care that much about their size endlessly. And then one day, I became one. Shallow or not, I think that it’s interesting that so many women have this obsession, don’t you think so? Anyway, here is my story. I hope you’ll have fun reading it.

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I was in the changing room. With four pairs of jeans. Jeans. The devil’s pants. I told myself: sizes don’t mean anything, they were just cloth cut into shapes and then sewn back together into other shapes. Plus I’m probably just a 6 or an 8. It doesn’t matter. I should’ve known better, but I didn’t. Not really. Because I was jumping up and down in the changing room, desperately trying to squeeze myself into a pair that were way too small for me.

The 6 doesn’t fit,

The 8 also doesn’t fit,

by the looks of it, the 10 will barely fit.

I’d be a size 12, TWELVE, in the eye of Gap’s High-rise Cigarette Jeans*.

Never had I anticipated that I’d be a12 in anything. And in my logical brain, I knew that, in all planets, all galaxies, and all universes, being a size 12 in a pair of Factory-made, mass-produced Gap jeans means zip, nada, absolutely nothing. This irrelevant fact might as well been a piece of garbage tossed out, floating in space.

But sadly, it caused a massive earthquake.

The seventeen year old who still lives inside of me was so upset she shook her fist at the sky.

"Excuse me. In what universe am I a size 12? Do I look fat to you, God? I know you think I’m being offensive because ‘how would a woman who is actually a 12 feel’. But GOD DAMN YOU, now is not the time to be all politically freaking correct. Right now, at this exact moment, it is not about the woman who is actually a size 12. It’s about me! M-E ME! I thought I was a 6 and now have my size DOUBLED in an instant. I swear, you want me to move pass these issues but all you do is trigger me again and again. Just when I thought I was doing pretty well on this ‘body positivity’ thing, you throw in a pair of stupid jeans to make me feel bad about myself. I am so angry I could just rip it all to shreds right now.”

And then, I would stomp out of the fitting room, with pants halfway on, yell at the poor Gap employees, throw in the eating disorder card: “Sir, I would have you know, it’s been YEARS since I had an eating disorder, I saw three counsellors about it, THREE. I spent my precious early twenties battling it and I thought I had won. Do you know how hard it was? Trying to force yourself to stop obsessing, even if you have a compulsion every Gosh darn moment of your life? Well it WAS. And I did it. I finally did it enough that the obsession with my weight stopped. I never knew that it would come back to haunt me, but these damn flesh binding, stomach strangling, stupid-button-that-stabs-you-having things that you call jeans finally did the job. Is this what you want?”

In one of the universes, I’m sure she would have said all that, the poor employees at The Gap would panic and call their manager. The manager would come, give me a confused and defeated look, and reluctantly offer me a discount.

But that was not me. At least, not in this universe. Although I’ve had fantasies of being a person who gets discounts from making dramatic speeches.

I said to my seventeen year old self,

“Okay. I know you’re upset. I get it. And I am here with you. ”

I put my old pants back on, took myself out of the fitting room, and stepped out of the Gap.

Still triggered, seventeen year old Moo was now muttering under her breath: “size 12… give me a break. I’m never shopping there ever ever ever ever again. I hate the Gap. HATE.”

And I go, “Yes, I know. And it’s fine”.

We do this back and forth about fifty more times on the way home.

The world moves on.

*they’re “high rise” because they’re supposed to come up really high on your stomach. “Cigarette” is because the part under the knees are shaped like cigarettes… so I’ve been told.

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